When Luka stole the data, Kerring’s corporate machine sprung into action.

 

In the hushed backrooms of Kerring Towers, the hollow men make calls. They see reports and facts and data and they come to one conclusion: risk mitigation protocols must be enacted.

 

They send the Tasmanian.

 

The Tasmanian was once a man. He abandoned that title, along with his name.

 

Now he is a force of nature.

 

He stands almost seven feet tall, body built from a quad-bonded metaplas shell and laced with ceramide internal armour. His metal eyes are full-spectrum photosensors, his nose and mouth equipped with chemical analysis subroutines and needlefangs that drip with cyanide. Twisting cables of titanium composite replace his bones, and his myofibres are military grade. His brain is hardwiring and alloy, pumped full of corporate propaganda and lined with serotonin inhibitors and acetylcholine drips. He is the brutal will of Kerring’s shareholders, the iron fist in the velvet glove.

 

The hollow men give orders. They wait patiently, hands folded.

 

This is business.

 

* * *

 

Given what he has stashed in his head, Luka knows the Tasmanian is hunting him. Anywhere Kerring goes, he can go.

 

So Luka goes analog.

 

“Need a ride, mate?”

 

An aging cabbie leans out the window, lines etched deep into his face. The smell of cheap tobacco wafts out of the car’s faded interior. Archaic, internal combustion.

 

“Need a car, actually. How much?”

 

Without hesitation, “Two thousand.”

 

Luka counts out four thousand yuan and hands it to the cabbie. The older man gets out of the car, throws Luka the keys, eyes narrowing. “You work for the government?”

 

“No, Kerring.”

 

“The phone guys?”

 

Luka can’t help but grin — Kerring will always be ‘the phone guys’ — and says, “That’s us.”

 

The cabbie snorts. “Tell your boss to fix our fuckin’ networks then. Lucky to get two bloody bars out here.”

 

* * *

 

“Bring me to a vehicle.”

 

The dealer runs to the front of the showroom, the Tasmanian following close behind. A sleek chrome bullet sits on the faux-marble tiling. “Here. Very new, hasn’t been driven yet.”

 

“I will take it.”

 

“We ask for an initial insurance fee of—“

 

“No.”

 

The dealer coughs. “Ah, we do actually mandate the first payment in our contr—”

 

The Tasmanian grabs the dealer. He stares at the wriggling man.

 

“You can’t rob me, mate! You think I don’t have them bio-locked?” The dealer squirms under the Tasmanian’s iron grip.

 

The Tasmanian looks at the car door, noticing the thumbprint scanner. Looks back.

 

In one smooth motion he snaps off the man’s thumb like a carrot.

 

Howling, spasming, blood spurting onto the floor, the dealer tries to back away from the monstrosity, but his plastic shoes slip on the crimson liquid and he falls to the ground with an unceremonious crash. He lays still, whimpering, while the Tasmanian climbs into the driver's seat. He looks for the ignition lock and searches for a place to jab the dealer’s thumb.

 

He notices lettering above the lock scanner: retinal identification only.

 

The Tasmanian climbs out of the car again, and soon the dealer screams anew.

 

* * *

 

In his rear-view mirror, Luka can’t miss the silver car following him. The sunlight glints off the metal. He can tell that the Tasmanian is closing on him.

 

Luka watches the connection on his Kerring device, those little bars of civilisation and technological imperialism. He sees them slowly drain. One bar.

 

The Nullarbor gravel is a bright crimson rust-red, that vibrant shade colour of violence and decay — a testament to entropy and the end of all things.

 

Luka pulls the vehicle over, spraying a thick cloud of dust behind him. He pops the car door open and clambers out. It takes only moments for the dirt to cover his suit with a fine film. The haze hangs still in the windless air.

 

He waits.

 

With a feline purr, the vehicle slows to a halt, less than fifty metres from Luka. He holds his breath as a slim line opens in the side of the vehicle. A single metal-plated leg steps out, followed by the metal bulk of the Tasmanian.

 

“Why did you stop running?”

 

Luka hears disappointment in the hunter’s voice. “You’ll find me wherever I go.”

 

“This is true,” the Tasmanian nods. “You were… resilient prey.”

 

Luka shrugs. “I tried.”

 

The Tasmanian starts walking towards Luka, mechanical whirr-thuds heralding coming death.

 

Luka stands his ground.

 

The Tasmanian is twenty metres away.

 

Luka feels the sweat drip down his back. Have I miscalculated?

 

Ten metres.

 

Doubt and panic creep into Luka’s mind as the juggernaut closes in.

 

Five metres.

 

Then… the whirring stops.

 

The Tasmanian has less than a second to ponder why his vision is fading before he tumbles down into the dirt, face-first.

 

Luka trembles, falls to his knees, dry retches on the ground. The sand burns his skin through the thin fabric. He checks his phone, grinning at the lack of reception.

 

He stands up, walks to the gull-wing door of the Tasmanian’s car. Luka reaches in to activate the internal Kerring phone system, barely connected to the com-sats.

 

* * *

 

The hollow men receive the call from the Tasmanian just as the morning sun touches the bays of Sydney Harbour.

 

“I still have your asset,” the voice comes through the receiver, cutting out with static as Kerring’s satellites struggle to connect the link. “And I’ve disabled the Tasmanian.”

 

Around the boardroom, there is the heavy calm of the eye of a hurricane. One of the hollow men speaks.

 

“Well played. What do you want?”

 

Luka pauses. The man does not sound how he’d expected; there is no arrogant drawl, no affected elocution. He is just a man.

 

“Are you there, Luka?” The voice again, dull.

 

“I want what you all have. I want a seat at the table,” Luka says. “I’m sick of working for nothing. So cut me a deal. I’ve earned this.”

 

This is business.

 

Nothing. Then, the voice again.

 

“Welcome aboard.”